So? Chris/Kyle had-shrugged. I’m a Muslim. Muslims can be white.
I don’t believe for one minute you’re a Muslim, said a skinny black man on the end, the only African-American in the room.
So Chris/Kyle had launched into a recital of the most important passages of the Koran, which he had memorized in anticipation of being quizzed. It had convinced the thugs of his bona fides, and they made the buy. Afterwards, they’d left the house, where ATF agents had arrested them all, including Chris, to preserve his cover.
The Rabbi was saying, “Alek, look at it this way. If Curt is right, you come out looking like a rose because you gave him the approval. If he’s wrong, everybody will understand why you gave him a freebie. It’s win-win, for you.”
Alek sighed heavily, then turned to Chris. “Three days. That’s it.”
Chapter Twenty-five
Chris walked next to the Rabbi past the well-maintained stone row houses, reflexively keeping his head down through Fairmount, an artsy city neighborhood with indie coffeehouses, historic pubs, and used bookstores, as well as the Philadelphia Museum of Art, Barnes Foundation, and Free Library. The Rabbi and his Portuguese wife, Flavia, were always nagging him to go to author lectures at the Free Library or folk dancing at the Art Museum, which would never, ever happen.
Chris was going to the Rabbi’s for dinner only because he wouldn’t take no for an answer, but Chris felt out of sorts. He was angry at Alek’s attempt to shut down the operation, and Abe’s death was beginning to haunt him. Heather was at the back of his mind, too, but he pressed her away as they reached the Rabbi’s house, which was different from the others, since Flavia was an artist and had wanted their window trim to be purple, pink, and green.
“Flavia is so excited you’re here,” the Rabbi said, unlocking the front door.
“Me, too.” They went inside, and Chris found himself surrounded by chatter, music, and delicious aromas of broiled fish. Soft bossa nova music played on an old-fashioned stereo system, and the sound of laughter and women talking floated from the kitchen.
“And the girls are home,” the Rabbi said, meaning his twin daughters, Leah and Lina, who shared an apartment in Center City.
“Terrific.” Chris looked up as their chubby brown mutt, Fred, ran barking toward them, his long ears and pink tongue flying.
“We’re home, honey!” the Rabbi called, bending down as the dog jumped up on his shins and got a scratch behind the ear.
“In the kitchen!” Flavia called back, and the Rabbi headed toward the back of the house with Chris and Fred on his heels. They walked through the large, funky living room, with its green tufted couch and hot pink chairs grouped around a glass coffee table covered with books, drawing pads, and colored pencils. The walls were a soft turquoise, and vivid oil paintings covered every square inch with abstract scenes of flowers, fruits, and pottery.
“Curt!” Flavia appeared at the threshold of her aromatic kitchen, threw open her arms, and hugged Chris, barely coming up to his chest because she was as short as the Rabbi.
“Hello, Flavia,” Chris said, hugging her back. She felt warm and soft, and he breathed her spicy perfume and garlic smells from cooking. Inwardly, he struggled to cross the Chris/Curt divide to her, the family, and the house. It was an occupational hazard of an undercover cop to always be inside himself, but Flavia and the Rabbi reached into his heart and yanked until he gave it to them, so Chris surrendered as best as he could. At least he knew he wanted to, even though he was The Untouchable.
“How have you been, Curt? Long time, no see!”
“Wonderful, you?”
“Terrific. I’m so glad you could come. You know we love when you hang with us.”
“I love to hang with you.”
“Yet you won’t come dancing with us? David told me he asks you.”
“I can’t right now—”
“You always say that!” Flavia pouted, pretending to be offended, her dark eyes flashing. Her features were beautiful in an exotic way, with a large curved nose, full lips, and striking cheekbones. Her figure was part of the same package, voluptuous in a flowing peasant dress. Black curls trailed freely to her shoulders, framing her lovely face.
“Curt!” the twins said in unison, looking up as they set the table. They were a matching mixture of Flavia and the Rabbi, with their mother’s round brown eyes, the same dark curls, and a ready smile from their dad.
“Ladies!” Chris couldn’t tell them apart for a minute, though he had known them a long time. He felt a pride in them as if they were his own daughters, which he knew was a ridiculous thought, even as he had it.
They laughed, coming over and giving him a quick hug. “I’m Leah, she’s Lina,” Leah said, smiling up at him.
“Wow! When did you two grow up?”
“When you got old!” Leah shot back, laughing.
“Curt, meet our friend Melissa Babcek.” Lina gestured behind her, and a slim blonde came out of the pantry with some cans.
“Hi, I’ve heard a lot about you,” Melissa said, and Chris realized that Flavia and the Rabbi were trying to set him up, yet again.
“Nice to meet you too. I’m—” Chris was about to say Chris Brennan, but he stopped himself. “Curt Abbott.”
“I hear you’re, like, the best ATF agent ever.”
“Not exactly,” Chris said, eyeing the Rabbi. “So much for confidentiality.”
The Rabbi waved him off. “Don’t give me that, Curt. She doesn’t need clearance to know you’re a star.”
Chris laughed it off, and they all sat down to a delicious dinner of vegetarian risotto and roasted branzino, covered with tomatoes, onions, and red peppers. He wolfed down a second helping as the conversation circulated easily, lubricated by chilled Sancerre. Melissa was a nice woman, telling funny stories about her life as an associate at a big law firm, and although Chris gave the right responses and said the right words, he felt apart from everyone. It was as if he could go only so far but no further, and by the end of dinner, Chris could feel the Rabbi’s eyes on him.
“Chris, let’s go outside. I need a cigar.”
“Sure, okay.” Chris followed him from the kitchen, through a set of French doors, and out to their back patio, a flagstone rectangle framed by a privacy fence covered by ivy and climbing rosebushes. At the center of the patio was a table and wire chairs painted red, and on the table sat a blown-glass ashtray with a half-smoked cigar and a Bic lighter.
“Sit down, please.” The Rabbi sat down, picked up his cigar, lit it, and took a long drag to bring it back to life. “So what did you think of Melissa?”
“I think she’s a lovely young woman who will make some guy a great wife.” Chris sat down.
“But not you?” The Rabbi’s cigar flared orange-red, and he leaned back in his chair.
“Not me.” Chris could see inside the kitchen through the glass doors, and Flavia and the three girls were talking, laughing, and feeding Fred bits of fish, which he kept dropping on the tile floor. A warm golden glow emanated from the kitchen, and soft jazzy music floated through the screen door.
“What’s going on, Curt?”
Curt. Chris. He tried to reposition himself in space and time. “Nothing.”
“I’m not buying that.” The Rabbi tilted his head back and exhaled a wispy funnel of cigar smoke, which was swept away by the city air.
“Alek ticks me off. I appreciate your going to bat for me.”
“Happy to do it, you know that. I think you’re right.”
“Thank you.” Chris glanced inside the kitchen, through the window, and he could see Fred walking on his hind legs for more fish. The women burst into laughter.
“Why do you want to stay with the operation so much?”
“Like I said. Something’s not right, and we’ve gotten away with too many peaceful Oklahoma anniversaries. We’re pressing our luck and—”
“And that would be the party line.”
“What do you mean?” Chris looked over,
surprised at a new skepticism in the Rabbi’s tone.
“Don’t get me wrong, I believe you. But you’ve been undercover for years. There’s no operation you turn down, no matter how big or how small. And this one, you reached for, as soon as that video came in. You wouldn’t be denied.”
“Is something the matter with that?” Chris felt stung. “I’m doing my job.”
“Curt.” The Rabbi took another drag on his cigar, and its thick ash flared at the fat tip. “As your boss, I appreciate your dedication and your commitment. But as your friend, I don’t like it.”
“Why?” Chris scoffed. “Don’t treat me like I’m some cliché, the undercover burnout. I’m not that at all. I’m fine. I’m stable. I’m not showing any signs of PTSD.”
“That’s exactly what bothers me.” The Rabbi’s dark gaze narrowed behind his glasses. “You like undercover work too much. You don’t want to leave it.”
“Because I like what I do. I’m a workaholic, like you.”
“No, wrong, I hated undercover work. You know why? I like who I am and I love my life. I love Flavia and the girls, and I even love that fat dog.” The Rabbi gestured to the kitchen, but his gaze remained on Chris. “You like being under too much because it gives you an identity. Someone to be. A role to play.”
Chris’s mouth went dry, and the Rabbi’s words resonated in his chest. But he didn’t know if he could admit it, not even to himself, much less to the Rabbi.
“I think that’s why you want to continue this operation, and why you leapt on the opportunity. The operation was your idea, and you rammed the authorization down Alek’s throat. That’s why he’s coughing it back up. You want to be under forever, that’s what I worry about.”
Chris didn’t know what to say, so he didn’t say anything. He wished he had a cigar so he had something to do with his hands, something that would distract him from the sweetly domestic scene on the other side of the window. It struck him that he’d lived his entire life on the wrong side of the window, with everyone else on the other side, the normal side, easy to see and within reach, but only through glass, separated from him. The Rabbi was right. Still Chris couldn’t say anything.
“And the question is, if that’s true, what do you do about it? The answer is simple—come in, for good. You can’t start figuring out who you are until you get rid of Chris Brennan, Kyle Rogan, Calvin Avery, and the other aliases. They’re not you. They’re just roles you played. I want you to stop before you lose yourself.”
Chris swallowed hard. “I’m not sure if that’s possible,” he said, quietly.
“Stopping or losing yourself?”
“Stopping.” Chris knew the other one was possible. That, he knew.
“Of course it is.” The Rabbi gestured at the kitchen window again. “You can have everything that I have. A wonderful wife, two great kids to drive you crazy, a dog on a diet—”
“What if I need to play a role to be the best agent possible?” Chris heard himself say. It must’ve been the wine, loosening him up.
“You don’t. You’re already the best agent possible. The rest is just dressing. Like clothes or a scarf. Overlay. The distinction is form over substance.” The Rabbi eyed him. “And Curt, you’re all substance. Always have been.”
Chris warmed inside, almost believing him. “So I won’t lose my superpowers?”
“No.” The Rabbi chuckled.
“I met someone,” Chris said, after a moment
“Really?” the Rabbi asked, intrigued. “Who?”
“One of the moms. Larkin’s mother. Heather.” Chris liked her name. It was so feminine. He hadn’t said it aloud until this very minute.
“You like her?”
“Yes.” Chris had to admit it. He liked Heather. He flushed. It felt like high school, which, in a way, it was.
“You’re sure the son’s not a suspect?”
“Pretty sure.”
“You’re not letting your feelings for the mom cloud your judgment about the kid, are you? I’d hate to see you get hurt.”
“I’m sure.”
“So then. You know the rules.” The Rabbi emitted a puff of cigar smoke. “A man’s got to do what a man’s got to do.”
Chris burst into laughter, like a relief of a pressure valve. He’d never gotten involved with any woman on an operation before, but he knew it happened. “I wouldn’t do anything, and it’s not going anywhere. Nothing can jeopardize this operation now that Alek’s on my ass.”
“But even wanting it, that’s a step in the right direction.” The Rabbi’s expression softened. “It’s good to want a relationship. You’re getting older. You’re entitled to a family.”
Chris didn’t know if he was entitled to a family. He had gotten this far without one.
“I want you to think about what I’m saying. Curt Abbott is one helluva guy, and I really like him. So does Flavia, and she’s smarter than I am, and the girls, and Fred. Don’t stay out because you’re afraid to come in.”
“I’m not,” Chris shot back, but he wasn’t sure which was in and which was out. To him, he was in, and they were out.
“Then why? Why this operation, really? This is just us, now. You’re going toe-to-toe with Alek, for what?”
“I know why,” Chris said, thinking aloud. “I want to protect my kids. These kids. One of them is mixed up in something, maybe more than one of them. But they’re good kids and they can’t know what they’re getting into.”
“You don’t know that.”
“True, but it’s a hunch. They’re young. Naïve. They’re all unwitting.” Chris felt a new conviction and heard the truth in his own words. Maybe the kids were standing in for him, for all of his boyhood. No one had protected him, and he knew how that had felt. Now he could protect them. He hadn’t realized it until this minute, clarifying his mission anew.
“Then stay. And however it ends, I hope that woman is still there for you.”
“We’ll see.” Chris checked his watch. “Gotta go.”
Chapter Twenty-six
The neon sign glowed REGAL CINEMA MULTIPLEX CENTRAL VALLEY, and Chris joined the back of the crowd swelling into the theater, mostly teenage boys. He had learned from his audiotapes that Evan and Jordan were going to the movies tonight, and after he’d left the Rabbi’s house, he’d had just enough time to wire himself. He’d taped the microphone to his chest under his polo shirt, and the controller was in his pocket so he could turn it off and on remotely, saving him hours of listening to irrelevant details of a target’s everyday conversation.
Jordan and Evan shuffled ahead in the middle of the throng, visible because they were so tall, and Jordan had on his Musketeers baseball cap, worn twisted backwards. The crowd shifted forward, and Chris kept his eye on them as they went through the door. He watched them join the line at the concession stand, where every teenage boy was buying oversized tubs of popcorn and sodas.
Chris lingered at the back of the lobby, pretending he was reading the menu, which was endless, including nachos, hummus, and pizza. He couldn’t remember what they sold in the movies when he was little; he’d been to the movies only once, as a child. He didn’t even remember which movie he’d seen. All he remembered was that when he’d looked over, his foster mother’s eyes had been teary. He hadn’t had to ask why.
Evan and Jordan got their popcorn and sodas, headed to the ticket taker, and had their phones scanned, and Chris followed. Jordan and Evan went down the hall to the theater and went inside, and Chris let a few people pass before he entered and took the first seat on the left. He passed the next few hours watching the movie, a decibel-blasting superhero sequel, but in the back of his mind was his conversation with the Rabbi.
It’s okay to want a relationship. You’re getting older. You’re entitled to a family.
After the movie was over, Chris got a bead on Jordan and Evan, heading toward the side exit. It was time to make his move, and he left his seat just as they were reaching the line. “Jordan, Evan!” Chris calle
d to them, managing a look of surprise.
“Hi, Coach!” Jordan smiled, but he looked unusually drawn, and Chris flashed on the scene at practice this morning, remembering how upset they’d been over Abe’s death.
“Yo, Coach,” Evan said, already looking down at his phone, and the three of them left the theater together, squeezing into the hallway.
“How’s your face feel, Jordan?” Chris gestured to the injury on his cheek, which had scabbed over.
“A lot better.”
“Good. What did you think of the movie?”
“Awesome,” Jordan answered.
“Totally,” Evan answered, still looking at his phone. They trundled out to the main lobby, to the exit doors, and out of the building. People passed them, lighting cigarettes, checking phones, and pulling out car keys as they left for the parking lot.
Chris stayed close to Jordan. “Hey guys, you want to go out and grab a coffee or something? It’s not that late, and I know you’ve had a tough day, after what happened to Mr. Y. We could go next door. We don’t have to move the cars.”
“Okay.” Jordan smiled with a shrug.
“Why not?” Evan said, texting.
The night was dark and cool, and they walked the length of the multiplex with Evan texting on his phone. Jordan fell into step with Chris, who put his hand in his pocket, found the remote control for the wire, and pressed ON. “It’s so sad about Mr. Y,” Chris said after a moment.
“Yeah.” Jordan walked with his head down, the flat lid of his backwards-baseball cap pointing up at a moonlit sky.
“How are you feeling about it?”
“It’s sad, like you say.”
“Obviously I didn’t know him that well, but he took the time to welcome me. Suicide is a terrible thing, an awful thing.”
“I know. How can you hang yourself? That’s, like, hard to do.”
“It must be.” Chris didn’t explain that, in fact, the opposite was true. It wasn’t that difficult to hang yourself, and if the ligature were positioned correctly, it wouldn’t be suffocation that would be fatal, but the breaking of the hyoid bone at the base of the throat, crushing the windpipe.